The Moment I Saw His Ass, I Knew I Had to F*ck Him. I Never Expected Our Sex to End With 'I Love You'
What started as fucking in a grimy handicap stall at Hot Dog Sundays ended with a surprisingly loving DDLB scene.
Original illustration by Roy (@theslagroom)
I was in Los Angeles, being a good Jewish son taking care of my mom following her back surgery, so I only had one night to be a slut. I knew I had to check out Hot Dog Sundays (HDS). Every single attractive and slutty gay man I spoke to on the apps said this was the best male queer party in LA. There was no competition. The disco music slapped so hard, you’re unable to resist shaking your ass on the dancefloor. The go-go boys were, I mean, look at them.
This photo is from the night I attended. Credit: @hotdogsudaysla.
And the guys in attendance were supposedly hot and friendly, which, as we all know, is a rare combination, especially among many of the WeHo gays.
So, on my last Sunday evening in Los Angeles, I headed to Silverlake to see what all the fuss was about.
Bitch, HDS did not disappoint. The first person I saw walking in was Jax, a go-go dancer. He was on all fours, clapping his booty cheeks on a podium. I wanted to pull his thong to the side and lick his hairy hole, but since I also didn’t want to get kicked out of the party within 30 seconds, I instead placed a few ones in his thong and said, “You are so goddamn sexy.”
"You too, handsome,” he replied with a wink. He was my first love of the night.
My second love was Judas, the gogo boy on the next podium, who was whispering into an attendee's ear while twerking his ass for thirsty onlookers (a multi-tasker). I had been following Judas for a while on Instagram, and to meet him in person? They say never meet your idols, but they have never met Judas. He was a sweetie and didn’t mind my shameless ogling.
A picture of my two crushes, Judas and Jax, together the night I met them both. Photo credit: @_judasking.
My third love of the night was not a go-go dancer but a fellow partygoer. I had run into a lovely queer boy who, just a few days earlier, attended my Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto in conversation at the Circus of Books. No, Jeffrey was not my third love, but my face lit up seeing him. I LOVE meeting people who read my work when out and about. If you see me in public, always say hello. As long as you don’t request advice or dump personal trauma on me —I am off the clock and (usually) trying to suck off a thick-hogged mustachioed stranger in the bathroom—I love a good chat.
In the middle of discussing my thoughts on modern queer intimacy with Jeffrey, I saw a pocket twink in a bright pink singlet in my periphery. Over his Barbie onesie, he wore the tiniest pleather shorts, and his ass—KABLAM— jutting out. I don’t know how he managed to stand upright. If I had an ass that fat, I’d fall over backward. I’d also be ass up, taking loads all day, every day, because I would want to share my gift to the world—yes, I am that generous of a person.
“I’m sorry, I zoned out for a second. What were you saying?” I asked, returning my attention to Jeffrey.
“Not a problem,” Jeffrey said. But as soon as he began repeating myself, I again lost focus.
I interrupted him. “I am so sorry to do this mid-conversation, but I need to go over and fuck that man ordering a drink.”
Familiar with my work, Jeffrey didn’t bat an eyelash. “No worries at all, honey! You do you!” he said. I appreciated his encouragement of my thirst, which was at a record high—the past couple of weeks had been very dry. I wasn’t out in the streets, spreading cheeks and breeding holes like my usual MO. I was stuck at home, cooking meals for my mother and administering her medication.
So, to be surrounded by a hundred fifty gay men, many of whom were showing skin and on the prowl? I was walking around with a hot dog of my own.
“Hey, baby—you look so damn sexy,” I said. (I guess that was my pickup line for the night. Very creative of me.)
He looked me up and down, “Thank you.” His voice was high-pitched, but I couldn’t quite understand his tone. It wasn’t an emphatic thank you, indicating clear sexual interest, but it wasn’t a dismissive response either.
“What are you drinking? I’ll get it for you,” I said.
His eyes lit up, “Yes, please! Can I get a margarita?”
“Of course, baby,” I replied. (He was the type of twink with a hairless face you had to call “baby.”)
“I’m Aztro,” he said. (Enjoy his OnlyFans, which I jacked off to twice while writing this piece.) “And this is my fiance.” He pointed to the bear next to him, and so, out of obligation, I offered to buy him a drink, too. He wanted a beer. Easy enough.
With drinks in hand, I asked if they wanted to join me on the dance floor. “Let’s go!” his fiance said. I didn’t love that Aztro’s fiance was more interested in me than he was, but I kept my eye on the prize. My tongue would be in my third love’s asshole before the night was through.
The three of us danced in a circle, drinks in hand, as a Donna Summer remix blasted. The bear straddled up behind me, putting his hands on my hips and pushing my ass back into his fat erection. I was surprised he was into me, given that I am a 6’4 hairy white man, and his fiance is a smooth Latino, at least a foot shorter than me. But I guess this man, like myself, didn’t have a type.
I grabbed Aztro’s hand and pulled him close, so my erect dick was now pressing against his pleather shorts. I placed my hand underneath his shorts and squeezed his bare ass cheek.
“Holy shit? Is your ass real?” No, that’s not something you should ask someone you’re trying to sleep with, but who am I kidding? I didn’t care.
He was taken aback. “No, this is all real! You can’t tell the difference?”
“It’s just so perfect,” I said. Aztro’s smile returned, and when he said “Thank you” this time, he was clearly flirting with me. I leaned in for a kiss—a peck at first. His breath was sweet like bubble gum, despite drinking a Margarita. But it made sense; everything about this man was pink and Barbie.
Our first peck—touching his soft lips—made me yearn for more. I grabbed his juicy ass and pulled him to me, opening my trap wide. We swirled our tongues in each other’s mouths—desperate, hungry kisses.
My hard cock pressed up against his chest, and when he rubbed his palm over my VPL, my dick involuntarily flexed.
“So big, Papi,” he said, and I shot him a naughty grin. Underneath his shorts, I pulled the thin string in his ass to the side, feeling his tender hole. He was tighter than a duck’s arse, so I didn’t stick a finger in. Instead, I licked my middle finger and massaged his rim—felt him pucker for Papi.
I would have done anything to fuck him in at that moment—given him a blank check or stabbed his ex-boyfriend. He could have asked me to walk into a rural biker bar with my dick out, approach the meanest-looking giant there, and call him a faggot to his face. I would have done it to fuck Aztro’s ass, have it clapping on my hog.
His fiance started getting handsy with me while I got handsy with my love. Honestly, it was distracting. I wanted to focus on Aztro, so I brushed away the fiance’s hands. Feeling slightly discouraged, he took a lap.
I stopped kissing Aztro’s face and looked into his bright eyes. “Baby, come to the bathroom with me?” I asked. “I need to eat your ass.”
“Si, Papi,” he said. I grabbed him by the hand, and we entered the empty stall.
Before continuing, let me make one thing VERY clear. Hot Dog Sundays is not a sex party. You should not be having sex in the bathroom, or anywhere for that matter. If security catches you, they will kick you out, as they should. I was 100% in the wrong.
But given that I would have happily gotten the shit kicked out of me by the leader of the Hells Angels to finger Aztro for five (5!) seconds, I was willing to assume any risks. (In case it wasn’t clear, I was sex-deprived. Horny doesn’t even begin to describe the insatiable lust in my swelling loins.)
In the bathroom stall, I flipped Aztro around.
“Put your hands on the wall and bend over.” He did as I commanded, and I smacked his ass before unbuckling his belt, pulling his shorts down to his ankles.
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